


The First of All Seasons

by SummersFading



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:17:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4997452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummersFading/pseuds/SummersFading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The War of Wrath was won, but Elrond and Gil-Galad are fighting another kind of battle - a fresh and bleeding one that forces them to wrestle with the reality of being eternally separated from one whom they love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First of All Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything! Everything belongs to Professor Tolkien and his brilliant mind. Queen Indiriel and the lady Laeste belong to the author Oleanne, whose works sometimes make me weep with every kind of emotion. Reviews and helpful criticisms are most welcome.
> 
> Author's Note: The relationship Gil-galad has with Elrond (and Elros) has always been something that really fascinates me, I've always wanted to further explore their dynamics and the ways their interactions evolve throughout the end of the first age till the beginner of the third. Hopefully this story goes somewhere!

The feast was over, guests and friends alike bade each other good wills, blessings, and farewells.

Twas a marvelous night, the Winter Solstice, and the King himself had delighted greatly at how wholesome everything was put in place and how orderly the festivities were carried out.

Everyone treated with each other joyfully...He blinked a few times when a soft icy snow flake fell on his dark eyelashes, it has been a long time, the King thought with a little remorse, since the Winter Solstice has been this peaceful.

He rubbed his temples and closed his tired eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. Surprisingly, he was more emotionally weary from all the dancing and singing and jolly than he had expected to be.

He was unused to this seeming contentment in the back of his mind, after all, he was bred only ever in trials. Yet now no violence seemed eager to crush him. It was pleasant, but he would admit it felt odd, like something was amiss.

He entertained a guiltily thought - maybe he didn't feel as alive and as tangibly living because no foul scents of black blood filled his nostrils.

The King sighed softly, he now wished for nothing more than to go back to his private quarters and ponder away what is left of the night in his warm sitting room with his back in a luxurious cushion.

Luxurious, what an unfamiliar word, it tasted almost undeserving on his tongue.

He shook his head to chase that thought away, the enemy was defeated. Forty-two long and endless years spent on battle grounds.

He silently glided down the marble corridor, only Ithil illuminated the path he walked, her soothing light lured his mind into an increasingly diffused mode.

The room was dark and warm and secluded, at last. In the furthest wall of his chamber was a fireplace, already crackling; a big, velvety couch sat right in front of it, and on its side was a smaller armchair and a golden stand.

The room looked dark with a tint of scarlet, a warm variation to his usual blue - but the silver stars of the House of Fingolfin was still found sparkling on the wall. This sitting room was relatively empty, not much else inhabited his private quarters.

He misses his lady wife Indiriel terribly, circumstances had not allow him to see her in many years.

When he plopped himself down on the armchair the King involuntarily let out a content moan and closed his weary eyes, willing no image of evil or goodness to surface. He wished for an empty mind when he could see nothing, maybe then, just maybe, he would truly rest.

A cup of miruvor was left on the golden stand next to the armchair, he reached for the Noldorin silver cup while wrapping himself in a dark green, velvet throw.

Lying his head back he sipped the liquor quietly, allowing his long legs to stretch in front if him; his lean fingers mindlessly tracing over the intricate design on the cup. His sharp but weary grey eyes fixed on the low and crackling flame, if only sleep would enchant him.

In the end weariness claimed him - the King fidgeted a little and positioned his head on the armchair more comfortably, and taking his eyes off the fireplace, he let his mind wonder into the empty spaces that has yet been occupied.

When his eyes came back into focus, the fire was still crackling, his neck was a little sore from the make-do pillow on the side of an armchair, he blinked a few times, pulling himself up in the couch.

A soft, whimpering sound escaped from under his velvet blanket, he was immediately alarmed and jerked the blanket off himself. Reaching for the dagger he hid in his boots for he was not exactly armed, well, not armed as much as he was comfortable with. Even in the most secured and private chambers of all Lindon.

A slim and shivering figure was revealed before his eyes, dark midnight tresses in disarray clad in simple sleep clothes.

A boy it was, the child of his heart, Elrond.

Elrond was weeping against the cushions, his arm in his mouth to muffle the sound, his long legs tangled on the floor, and wept with such sorrow it seemed as if nothing in the whole Arda would ever comfort him.

The King tossed his dagger away. Elrond began wailing when he heard the dagger hit the carpet, he lifted up his tear-streaked face at the King and whimpered "Ereinion".

The King immediate reclaimed the fallen blanket and draped it across the youngling's shivering body. How dared he? To bereave the child of the blanket's warmth? He knew all too well nothing else would give it.

He sank down and kneeled next to the child and wrapped his long arms around the youth.

"Penneth nin, my little one, what is amiss? Why did you not wake me?" His asked gently, worriedly, sitting himself down on the carpet with his back against the couch. He cupped the child's face softly and wiped at his tears.

A deep sense of fear settled in his stomach, he had a feeling what this teary episode was about.

The crying youth maneuvered himself next to his King and found himself in a loving embrace a second after, he laid his head on the King's chest.

"Ereinion..." Elrond breathed out between sobs, the King held him tighter.

"I am here, Elrond, you are safe, you are warm, the war is over. Pen tithen, I will not lose you."

The vibrations of his chest seemed to comfort Elrond, who went eerily still for a moment.

"But I will lose my brother." Elrond cracked out, a new flood of hot tears streamed down his face in an angry pace, his slim body shivering in sorrow.

"Oh my love, I grieve with you."

Ereinion felt his own tears stinging in his eyes at the thought of...Elrond's brother. His nose touched the back of Elrond's head, he kissed it, feeling the soft silky tresses with his lips.

In truth, Elrond was no longer a child, he was fifty-five years old, just passed his Elven majority.

The War of Wrath was won after fourty-two years of difficult labor, the King himself was called Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, who raised Elrond and his twin brother Elros in the mist of war.

They came to him in flight, to Mithlond, in short hair of the fashion of men when they were but thirteen, yet babes in the eyes of elves.

Their height not even reaching his waist, their timid eyes stealing shy glances at him.

They came from their captors the Kinslayers, Meadhros and Maglor Feanorian. They claimed that Uncle Maglor loved them.

Why, then, did they wake in the night crying and screaming? Did Maglor chase away the demons for them? How could he ever do the same?

When he comforted Elros and held Elrond's hand at night, allowed them to share his bed, kissed their sweaty foreheads and told them made-up stories - they yearned for Macalaurë, they wanted the musical enchantment Ereinion could not never give.

The best minstrel in his court wouldn't do, only the most mighty minstrel in all Arda would.

They came hooded in grey and shivering in the cold, each with a short Noldorin sword draped on their belts. He treasured the daggers for them, knowing it was their history, part of growing up, a token from their past, however faint and dull memories could become.

How fuzzy but impactful childhood would be to growing elflings.

They came with hungry bellies and in need for care and attention; they came orphaned and not knowing who they were; he gave them rooms to live in worthy of their noble birth, yet they would not part, always choosing to sleep next to each other since the days in their mother's womb.

They came to find whatever kin they had left, wherever they would belong. And there he was, Ereinion Gil-Galad, their only cousin, only family.

He took them in and saw them as his own, a gesture not only in honor and remembrance of his good friends Earëndil and Elwing, but also was genuine heart posture he would forever hold toward these two darling babes.

He kissed their heads, their hurts. He kisses their fevered brows, bandaged their wounds, counseled them with kindness; he wiped away countless tears, he affirmed their worth, he sympathized with their insecurities.

He defended them from slander and threat; he saw to their education and training, he loved them so, even as he raised them in the eve of sorrow in this world.

He returned them their rightful titles when they came to adulthood, even though they were still squeamish about it. They loved him, Círdan loved them too.

Yet even the Valar could not foresee that a mere forty years later, the twin sons of Eärendil the Blessed and Elwing the White would be separated by a doom so dreadful and made to last for all the ages of the World - the fate of the first born and that of the second born.

For the twins chose differently their kindred, wished to be counted among different peoples. Being the only descendants of the heroes of men and elves and maiar alike, they bore the fate of Arda in their veins and upon their young shoulders: the sins, the consequences, the aftermath.

Elrond sobbed at his chest, blowing his nose viciously until there was blood on his handkerchief, Ereinion took pity and looked at him with loving reluctance.

"Ion-nin," he said, softly caressing Elrond's back, knowing it will calm him down as it ever has. He recalled a little wistfully the bygone days when both boys had greater emotional needs and came to him in want of physical comfort all the time.

They are adults now, they make their own decisions.

Why does he still think about the boys together? Why does he have to think of "them" instead of "Elrond" or "Elros"? They were supposed to be a package deal, you get one you get the other.

But now two kindreds of difference lie between them, how was he - their father figure, caregiver, guardian, friend, cousin, counselor, teacher, defender, King - supposed to deal with this change?

Even though he knew in his heart long ago that each boys favored different aspects of their unique ethnicity, the notion of counting one without the other is still disturbingly novel and impossibly painful.

They are twins, Damn It! They are supposed to be together. Forever. Or for as long as what hundreds of years the Peredhels thought they'd live.

"Ada, what is to happen to us?" Elrond whispered from Ereinion's chest, a safe place that has always made him feel secured and important. His fingers touched the silver star upon Ereinion's breast that symbolizes the house of Fingolfin.

Ereinion's heart soared when Elrond referred to him as Father, a childish habit the boys developed when they realized the darker implications of not having a father, and wanted one, so desperately needed to be defended and assured.

It doesn't come often now, they now carry themselves as Eärendilion, sons of the Blessed Star.

Elrond's endearment momentarily took Ereinion back to a bygone time, but he quickly shook it off when he felt Elrond's urgent distress.

He knew that this night Elrond came to him in need for a visible, flesh-and-bones father who would completely understand his pain, and would hold him with strong arms while he fall.

Ereinion cradles his child closer, and spoke to him in a comforting voice,

"My son, we do not yet understand the plans Eru has for you and your brother," he paused a little, contemplating on brining Eru into this, unsure about Elrond's feelings toward the One...

"but one thing I know with confidence, is that He made the two of you mighty, you are both meant for unimaginable great things, even when it causes so much pain."

Elrond fidgeted a little in his arms, burying his head back to Ereinion's chest. The King didn't know if Elrond accept this explanation.

"I am sorry ion-nin, I wish I could bear this pain for you. But do not be afraid, I am always with you."

Holding Elrond tight and gently rocked him in a soothing manner, Ereinion began to hum to him an easy, made-up song he used to sing when the twins were kids. When they used to jump into his bed demanding songs and stories, he hummed his little songs - not as mighty as Macaulaure, but as much if not more of love.

When they were both on the brink of dreamless sleep a sound knock on the chamber door woke them up.

Ereinion rubbed his eyes, irritated. "Who is it and what is your business?" He yelled tiredly from where he sat on the floor, Elrond drowsily yawned.

"My Lord!" Said a cheerful but caring lady voice behind the door - Ereinion instantly recognized Laeste - "The Queen arrives tonight!"


End file.
